Goa-ing Home

It’s time.

As I prepared to make the long journey west, and especially after the sensory onslaught of Varanasi, I thought it best to spend some time on a beach, with absolutely nothing on the agenda. Time spent reflecting and relaxing with me, myself, and I - company I’ve grown quite comfortable with.

During the dry season, Goa is the party capital of India. Hordes of backpackers line the beaches and dance the nights (and most of the mornings) away at the multitude of discos you’ll find almost nowhere else in India. Drug and alcohol laws are lax and the modesty found elsewhere in India is replaced with bikinis and boardshorts. During monsoon season, however, the place is empty. Beach shacks are boarded up, hostels and resorts are empty, the sea is angry, and the beach is deserted. Near-constant rain pummels the shores. While this may not sound like your version of a beach holiday, after two weeks in a country filled with a billion people and a million cows, it was exactly what I was looking for.

I walked the sands for miles in each direction, absorbing the steady rains and letting my mind flow freely. I skipped and spun and jumped and yelled like only a free man can. My thoughts centered around memories of places I hadn’t thought about for months, about friendships and relationships built, and those lost. I laughed at some of my thoughts and shook my head at others. I thought about what I might change if I did this all again, where I might go, and what I might have seen. I thought about the places I’d return and places I’d never go back. I tried to figure out why I’d liked certain locations so much more than others, and certain people more than others. I thought of being home, of seeing loved ones. I tried to think of responses to the same dreaded questions that I’m bound to answer a thousand times upon return:

What was your favorite place?  What’s the craziest thing you ate?   How were the girls?   Are you sad it’s over?

Perhaps this time around, the questions will be deeper and the conversations longer, with quality trumping quantity.

Finally, I thought about myself, how I’ve changed, who I’ve become. Time will be the ultimate decider, but at the moment, I believe I can confidently pinpoint some areas in which I’m different. Very little bothers me or gets under my skin anymore, as the petty mishaps or hiccups that come along are nothing more than inconsequential roadblocks, where detours are always present. Perceived suffering on my part will always pale in comparison to the horrors I’ve learned about in the past and the daily struggles I’ve witnessed in the present day. Life has been so good to me, what could I possibly allow to bring me down? Tragedy and suffering will no doubt come, and with it sadness and emotion. These emotions, however, are meant to be embraced, meant to overcome. Life will be difficult at times, I understand, but it will always be so very good, with each day meant to be ended with a smile.

Another new outlook is that I have very few expectations for the rest of my life. We so often measure a life like some sort of resume: went to college, made good money, got married, had children, bought a home, saw the world, retired comfortably, on and on and on. Do I want all those things in my life? Absolutely, but by no means will I be judging my progress toward happiness and fulfillment by a set of expected outcomes and checkboxes. I will fully embrace life as it comes, taking it by the horns as I always have, excited for what’s next, and intrigued by the unknown in it all. I’ve always found that travelling to a foreign land with no expectations results in some of the more profound and exhilarating experiences, with more “I can’t believe I’m here” moments and sincere appreciation for a beauty or thrill you had no idea even existed.

Wouldn’t it be something to live life this way?

In the last 6 months, I’ve covered some ground, some seas, and some skies, by any and all means of transportation. When it’s all said and done, I will have flown around the entire world, driven up and down entire countries, rode nearly 1000 miles on a motorbike, sailed the open seas, rode buses to hell and back, caught trains I was never meant to be on, rode street luges, rafted down rivers, kayaked lagoons, zip-lined across canopies, caught rides in the bed of trucks, on the back of scooters, on the side of tricycles, on top of camels, and crammed into tuk-tuks, and walked hundreds of miles through mountains, rivers, jungles, beaches, deserts, streets, alleys, hostels, and world wonders.

I danced, discussed, dreamt, and desired. I ate more rice than I had in 28 years, and probably more than I will eat for the next 28. I took selfies with kangaroos, koalas, elephants, and camels. I learned to ride a motorcycle, then proceeded to survive Vietnamese traffic with this new skill. I slept in cars, tents, trains, buses, planes, sailboats, and treehouses, on beaches, desert dunes, mountain saddles, grassy fields, and creaky hostel bunkbeds. I saw the grim realities of human suffering and deprivation, and the eternal peace of death. I laid on some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, hiked to some of the most awe-inspiring passes, explored mysterious temples, snorkeled the clearest waters, and learned to hold my breath for over 3 minutes. The list goes on.

At the end of the day, the end of a trip for that matter, I can think of no other experience or skill gained that is more important or more profound than the fact I’ve now learned to say Thank You in 10 new languages. The most important phrase one could learn in travels, and in life.

Perhaps the English version will work its way into my vocabulary a bit more often from here on out… 

Varanasi, India

Adorned corpses are marched through the narrowest of lanes as chants reverberate from the maze of buildings inhabited by those waiting, hoping, to die. Soaking wet pilgrims pass in the opposite direction, cleansed of their sins, carrying with them remnants of the holy Ganga river. The smell of smoke and volume of chants strengthens as the steps leading to the river emerge from the flooded, feces-ridden alleyways. Intense fires, more than half a dozen heaping piles of wood, roar from the riverbank, consuming the cleansed bodies, ending the cycle of death and re-birth for the deceased.

Welcome to Varanasi

Varanasi is the holiest city in India and one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world. It sees tens of thousands of visitors each year, both tourist and pilgrim alike. The birthplace of the god Shiva, and home to the Ganges River, referred to as the Ganga, it’s believed that, if one were to die in this place, the reincarnation cycle of death and re-birth ceases, with sins cleansed and a heavenly afterlife awaiting the believer. Every Hindu strives to make the pilgrimage to Varanasi at least once during their lives for a chance to bathe in the holy waters and cleanse themselves of their past wrongs. Babas of all status and stature make their way to Varanasi, as they line the streets and alleys and riverside ghats. The city itself is absolute chaos, with every overwhelming aspect of India rolled into one, tightly confined space. Cows and dogs and rats and monkeys and homeless and sickly and dying and feces and trash and heat and monsoons and horns and traffic and touts and masses of people are accompanied by incense and flowers and chants and celebrations and dancing and colors. Varanasi has it all, and then some.

The bathing rituals are both fascinating and stomach curling at the same time. Locals make their way down the steps, performing their rituals in the murky water, dripping some onto their heads and into their mouths before submerging themselves into the depths. It all seems quite beautiful, in a simplistic sort of way, until you realize that maybe 100 feet away, corpses are being ritually cleaned on the same shores, before their ashes and some bones fragments are tossed in the river. Pollution and cleanliness measurements are off the charts in all the worst ways, but the rituals continue, as they have for hundreds of years.

The burning ghat (Manikarnika), site of a 24/7 open air cremation operation was one of the more intense scenes I’ve witnessed in my life. Bodies marched in from the streets are first dumped in the river before being placed on the large piles of wood, lit from an ever-burning fire nearby. Thin white sheets shroud the bodies, though often times limbs and heads lay uncovered. Two to three hours are necessary to burn the bodies, leaving only the chest bone for males and hip bones for females, which are then tossed into the river. Families of the deceased crowd around the fires, while the “untouchables” do the work of placing bodies and stoking the flames. The cremation is meant to guarantee a heavenly home for the deceased, though there are 5 sets of people that are not cremated, for various reasons. Holy people, due to the fact they do not need to be cleansed, children, as they are still innocent, pregnant women, as they are carrying an innocent child, those bitten by snakes, as the venom is meant to have already purified them, and lepers, due to the possibility of spreading the disease. These groups are not burned, but attached to weights and dropped into the river. As I learned all of this, I felt less troubled than I expected to feel. The scene was most definitely intense, and the heat overwhelming, but there was a sense of peace over it all. Missing from the family were any signs of grief. No crying, no dejection, simply acceptance. After all the chaos embodied in the streets of the city, and really the whole country for that matter, the dead were finally at peace, all their wishes and intents granted as they succumbed to the fire.

For me, Varanasi was far too demanding on the senses to spend more than a couple days. I would like to return someday, perhaps when the river is lower and allows for a sunrise boat trip along the dozens of ghats leading into the river. I hope to take with me the sense of peace amongst chaos, and the idea that cleansing may have more to do with your mind than how clean the water may be. 

The Taj Mahal

More often than not, as the cliché goes, the journey itself is better than the destination. The Taj Mahal is a stunning piece of perfectly symmetrical, blindingly white, marble architecture made to be even more awe-inspiring by its garden and river surrounds, but before I get into all the grandiosity that is the Taj, I’d like to tell you my little story of how I got there:

Waiting in line to buy my train ticket at the local station, I battled would-be cutters as the queue became more of a blob the closer I got to the window. I requested a reserved seat to Agra, the resting place of the Taj itself, a manageable six hours away. The teller quickly handed me a ticket and demanded the 140 Rupee fee. While life is most certainly cheap in India, I walked away somewhat skeptical about the rather low price ticket I just received and a bit concerned about what my reserved seat was going to look like. Examining my ticket, I found no mention of a seat number, or even a platform number for that matter. After a few broken English conversations and a lot of hand-waving and head-bobbing, I gathered that my train was at the station now, but I needed to walk to the end of carriages, to the unreserved car, since I didn’t have a seat.

Shit.

I knew about these “unreserved” cars. On previous train journeys, I watched as the masses made a dead sprint for the end of the platform each time we rolled into a new station. Locals pile into the car, desperately trying to find some small piece of real estate where they can rest at least some portion of their bodies for the journey. That whole lack of personal space, thing? It’s real, and I’m fairly certain however many clowns the circus has managed to fit into a car won’t hold a candle to what the Indians are capable of on a daily basis with these trains.

I climbed into the cart upon direction from a cynically-smiling security guard and found zero open seats, as expected. Rather than work my way through the cart amongst the stares, I decided to lay claim to the pathway between two cars, prepared to stand for the journey. The car wasn’t nearly as crowded as I’d expected, and though I was most definitely not comfortable, I figured I could manage with my current piece of real estate. After a few conversations, I was once again adopted by an Indian, who convinced a passenger to let me share his window seat. I declined, before being persuaded to have a seat. One cheek on about 4 inches of a pleather wasn’t my idea of being comfortable, but I went with it. No more than twenty minutes later, I realized why I was persuaded so adamantly to take the seat.

The masses poured in, yelling and scrambling to find any open patch of a seat, climbing on the rafters, through windows, and toppling over those lucky enough to be firmly planted. My new seat partner held me back against the seat, urging me not to give any ground whatsoever. When it was all said and done, the yelling ceased and I took in the scene. Indians squeezed 8-deep into a row of seats meant for 4, legs sprawled across luggage racks above, nappers’ legs and arms curled around seat pillars, bodies strewn all across each other, and all the rest standing in the aisles. Somehow, vendors managed to make their way through the carriages, selling everything from samosas to sacks of cold water for sweaty backs. I was treated to a variety of treats, fully expecting my stomach to reject it all sometime later that evening.

At one point, a bag came toppling down from above, grazing my head, but landing square on top of my neighbor, who had been sitting on a big bag full of grains in the aisle in front of me. He held his head for a minute or so, expressionless, before I realized that blood was pouring down the back of his neck. I sat shocked for a second before remembering that I had my First-Aid kit with me. I jumped up on my seat, making sure nobody slid underneath me, and reached into my bag to pull out some gauze and bandages. We wrapped up the man’s head, gave him a couple ibuprofen, and just like that, I was a celebrity. The stares turned to smiling stares, nearly all of the few dozen passengers in my immediate vicinity beaming at me as I tried to avoid eye contact. After 3 more hours of a numb backside and more contorting than I care to mention, I left the train in Agra to a round of handshakes and happy faces, relieved to have survived a place I was never meant to be or see.

After all that, the Taj itself was beautifully boring, and best viewed from afar, across the gardens. You should most definitely go see it, and check a wonder of the world off your list.

Just make sure you have fun getting there…

Jodhpur, India

If I’d found the romance of India in Udaipur, then I most assuredly found the magic of this country in Jodhpur. Tetris-like rooftops sit above the crammed alleyways with a bird’s eye view of the labyrinth below and a front row seat to the ominous fort that looms over the city. Mehrangarh Fort, the backdrop for Bruce Wayne’s triumphant escape from prison in The Dark Knight Rises, creates an allure of olden day royalty and defense, a guard against any invading army keen enough to make their way across the barren desert landscape into the city.

From the walls of Mehrangarh Fort, the scene unfolds below: Bhangra music reverberates from the blue walls of the narrow lanes as children climb to the rooftops to take advantage of the sunset winds, flying their personal-pizza sized kites and playing cricket within the confines of multi-level rooftop perches. Like a real-life Where’s Waldo? book, I canvassed the town, finding worlds only visible from where I stood. Kites and kids danced with the wind, dogs found their way through the maze of steps that seemed to connect the entire city, cricket balls flew off rooftops, blown speakers roared, and adults watched it all unfold from above and below. It’s as though the seemingly non-stop chaos of the streets takes a moment to pause as the sun begins to fade away. With the completion of another day, a celebration of relief and appreciation and simple joy is in order. I’ve come to find this time of day here in India to be my favorite, as though all the pent up stresses and chaos of the day are released with the effortless dance of the kites and the innocent joy of children playing.

Aside from the impressive fort, the city of Jodhpur itself is beautiful. Nicknamed the Blue City, many of its building’s walls are painted blue, apparently to keep the city cool in the intense heat of the region, as well as to ward off mosquitoes. I’m not sure how well all that’s working out, but it sure makes for a photogenic area. Palaces can be seen on hilltops near and far, and perfectly symmetric step wells dot the city and its surrounds.

The excited waving from Indians continues, though instead of young adults staring and waving on the streets, young children find me from their neighboring rooftops as I stand and soak in the view from mine. Running from perch to perch, heads pop out from behind hanging laundry for a quick wave, before disappearing again, only to appear on another rooftop, one door over.

Once again, this country was captivating my imagination and my sense of wonder. My body stood and stared, but my mind drifted with the evening kites and my soul danced to the Bollywood beats…

Mumbai, India

Let the madness begin.

All the insanity I thought I’d experienced during my last 3 months in Southeast Asia was but a pre-season exhibition for the chaos I was about to get myself into in India. I was ready. Mentally prepared to see, hear, smell, and taste the best and the worst this world has to offer, I landed in Mumbai with every defense I’d ever learned as a traveler switched on. Nobody was going to scam me, the poverty wasn’t going to drain me, the horn noise wasn’t going to annoy me, and the traffic wasn’t going to scare me.

Then, something strange happened.

I walked around on a lazy Sunday morning and wasn’t overwhelmed at all. Traffic was manageable, the horns weren’t all that loud, and the touts didn’t harass me too much. Sure, there were cows wandering the streets, crippled beggars, nude junkies, and a few smells here and there, but in general it was all somewhat subdued. I took an Uber to the largest outdoor laundry in the world and ended up getting my very own guardian angel in the form of the young driver who promised that if I was in trouble anywhere in the city I could call him and he would come. Same went for my future travels in Varanasi, where his brother lived. He taught me Hindi and Marathi, and did his best to tell me all the ins and outs of the city, never asking for anything or suggesting we go anywhere I hadn’t previously planned. There was genuine care and concern in his voice and demeanor, as evidenced by the universal Indian headbob of affirmation as I left the car after telling him I appreciated all his help.

My guards were dropping by the hour. Walking around the giant laundry, with clothes of all shapes and sizes drying from rooftops as far as I could see, I was almost attacked by a dog, before being saved by another paraplegic man who invited me through the “facilities,” for a small fee of course. I obliged and climbed to the rooftops, up sets of stairs that weren’t quite up to code. My defenses were up yet again as we walked deeper and deeper into the maze of wash basins, ironing boards, and clotheslines. With each step, I memorized our path in case I needed to escape a sneak attack. Silly me, the man took me right to the exit, no hassles, aside from a plea for a few more rupees, which I politely declined.

I took my usual detours through the city, still surprised by how calm everything seemed to be compared to my expectations. I bought a ticket to see the Bollywood movie, Sultan, and ended up meeting a film writer taking his usual Sunday stroll through the city, looking for inspiration. He treated me to lunch, exuding the warm, genuine concern I’ve now come to expect with my interactions in this country. We learned a bit about each other’s countries and travels, and I went on my way to one of the more entertaining movie experiences of my life. Aside from the built in musical dance performances that are essential parts of every Bollywood movie, the paid attendance is a part of the show as well. As the main character, a persona similar to Rocky Balboa, triumphed throughout the movie, there were whistles, cheers, and standing ovations erupting from the crowd. We were all in it together, cheering the hero on, reacting to every heartbreak and heroic act. I found myself both laughing hysterically and investing myself emotionally in the whole situation. It was exhilarating. The Indian people have an expression of emotions, a sense of style, and warmth of interaction that’s all their own. The culture is uniquely theirs, and it’s quite captivating. Much like the Italians, the Indians know how to eat, how to dress, and how to love.

Reflecting on the day back at the hostel I commiserated with some fellow travelers about the lack of craziness I’d experienced walking around the city, as they too were expecting a whole new level of insanity.

Then Monday happened.

I walked the city for hours trying to find a back street that wasn’t filled with cows, bikes, taxis, rickshaws, beggars, horns, and throngs of people. I couldn’t do it. The horns were absolutely deafening, the livestock would have outnumbered any street full of people in the United States, save for maybe New York City. The sheer number of street stalls made me wonder how anybody could sell anything, yet they were all full. People went about their daily lives, whether that meant commuting, hauling supplies by rickshaw, having a morning or afternoon chai, or just honking their horn for the hell of it. All the madness I was hoping to find on the streets of Bombay, I found. And then some. I made an escape to Chowpatty beach, which is flanked by opposite ends of the city, separated by a large bay. The less than stellar sands were filled with city dwellers battling waves in full clothing, along with Muslim women in full black Burqas taking selfies on the shore. It was quite a sight. So was I, apparently, as the selfie requests came piling in.

At one point, the city nearly got the best of me, as walking through the streets I stumbled upon a dog clearly suffering from disease, bloated to nearly 3 times its normal size, lying on the streets, struggling to breathe. That dog was going to die there, it was only a matter of time. I’m not sure why, after all the poverty I’ve seen on this trip, including sickly dogs, that this helpless animal nearly broke me. Perhaps I realized that the unrelenting happiness that every dog exudes, no matter how they look on the outside, or what sickness they’re battling, was gone. Helpless and ignored, there was no hope. I imagined that the dog shared the same fate as many people living within the city and its slums. I had to take a break from it all, so I ventured into a book store and began reading Shantaram, an incredible look into life on the streets of Bombay. I smiled as the characters in the book were brought to life in front of me, with the conversations I heard around me and in the streets earlier that day. The quirkiness, the charm, the passion, the determination, the positivity. It’s everywhere.

As I left Mumbai, I couldn’t help but love the place. Not for what it offered for a traveler, but for how it captivated me, drew me into the intrigue that is India. The poverty is real, and quite disturbing, but so too is the love and generosity, and a certain something else that I still haven’t quite put my finger on. Something that entices, surprises, entertains, and can’t help but be admired.

Whatever it is, I dig it.